


Ka Me, Ka Thee

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Comfort Sex, Desire, Drinking, First Time, Hand Jobs, Historical, Injury, M/M, Military, Nervousness, Scratching, Shame, Soldiers, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-07
Updated: 2005-10-07
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was sin, but it couldn't be of the worst kind, Lawford reasoned, because of the comfort it brought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ka Me, Ka Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Bookverse, set during 'Sharpe's Tiger', at an indeterminate point between the men arriving at Seringapatam and Gudin calling their bluff.
> 
> EtA: Note to purists: Although this is bookverse, I have chosen to use the movieverse Yorkshire!Sharpe. Blame Sean Bean for that. ;)
> 
> Thanks to [](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/profile)[**caras_galadhon**](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/) , [](http://juonetar.livejournal.com/profile)[**juonetar**](http://juonetar.livejournal.com/) and [](http://littlemimm.livejournal.com/profile)[**littlemimm**](http://littlemimm.livejournal.com/) for beta and support.

"Give us a hand, Bill," muttered Sharpe. "The sores itch like the devil."

"Pardon?" asked Lawford, sitting up on his bed. He was not used to the humid air of Seringapatam, and found it difficult to rest during the day. Sharpe, by contrast, had been sleeping soundly since he had come back from what Lawford could only assume had been a visit to one of the brothels.

"I can't scratch meself, sir, not if I don't want to bend my arms 'round wrong." Sharpe gave a grunt as he attempted to show Lawford the difficulty of scratching his own bandaged back.

Lawford smiled with surprise and relief. It was such an honest and down-to-earth request, even with the errant 'sir'. He crossed the floor to Sharpe's bed and sat down carefully on the edge of the narrow cot. Sharpe, shirtless in the afternoon heat, lay on his side facing Lawford, and he gave a strange little smile as Lawford sat down. Close up, Lawford could smell the arrack on Sharpe's breath, and he wondered how much the other man had drunk before toddling back to their quarters in the barracks. "You'll have to tell me where to... where the itch is worst," said Lawford, feeling oddly uncomfortable.

"Down me spine," said Sharpe, but made no move to turn over.

"I can't reach it properly unless you turn over, Sharpe," tried Lawford. It took him a moment to realize he had used the wrong name without thinking, and he berated himself. Thank heavens none of the French soldiers they shared the barracks with were present, else his slip might have proved fateful.

"You want me on my belly, then, Bill?" laughed Sharpe, then attempted to school his features into something more serious. "It's worse down this side," he went on, drawing his right hand down his right side. Lawford answered Sharpe's grin with a nervous smile, and felt the beginnings of a miserable blush on his cheeks as Sharpe laughed anew. "I won't bite, Bill."

Lawford leaned over, setting a tentative hand on Sharpe's back just under the shoulderblade. He hooked his fingers under a rucked-up edge of bandage and experimentally scratched at the skin.

"Christ," muttered Sharpe, his eyes closed. "You've got aim like a bloody sniper."

Lawford felt the blush spread further up his neck. Sharpe had leaned forward, angling his shoulder downward, and his forehead was nearly touching Lawford's thigh. He dug his nails into Sharpe's back, trying to seek out more unharmed skin around the cuts.

"Hands like a lady, Bill, just as soft and wicked," mumbled Sharpe, his voice muffled by the blanket, and, Lawford suspected, by the arrack. He gave an alarmed twitch as Sharpe settled a hand on his knee, the long fingers wrapping over his thigh. The bed creaked momentarily as Sharpe seemed to heave himself upright, but he didn't rise. Lawford stilled his hand, holding his breath. He was desperately uncomfortable, but dared not show it.

"Go on," said Sharpe, the hold on Lawford's leg tightening as though he were trying to keep the other man in his place. "Ka me, ka thee," he laughed softly, his fingers picking at the knee-fold of the breeches. His long fingers slid slowly up the inside of Lawford's thigh, slowly enough to let him shift away or bolt.

Lawford found he could not move. His palms were sweating, his mouth was dry, and his mind was a blank. What in God's name was he doing? He could feel the blood in his body rush to pool in his groin in one hot, shameful wave.

Sharpe's fingertips brushed the slowly swelling bulge in Lawford's breeches, at first seemingly at random, then with more determination. Sharpe's face was still half-hidden by the blanket and by his shaggy hair, but Lawford thought he could see the glitter of one of Sharpe's blue eyes.

Lawford sat rigidly upright on the edge of the bed, his hand stilled on Sharpe's shoulderblade, a burning blush on his cheeks. Neither of them spoke, and Lawford held his breath. When Sharpe deliberately cupped the swollen flesh, Lawford drew a deep hitching breath that sounded like that of a man drowning. Sharpe seemed to take the sound as encouragement, and began stroking determinedly. Lawford closed his own eyes and gave a little whimper in the back of his throat as he began rocking his hips against Sharpe's hand. The weave of the breeches felt coarse like burlap against his skin, but the friction shivered along his nerves like strong rum.

Lawford breathed in the hot and still air in short breaths, trying to force himself to be calm and failing rather miserably. He didn't dare think about what it had to look like, and his free hand clenched by his side.

"William," said Sharpe, and Lawford started at the unexpected use of his Christian name. "I aren't trying to kill you. Calm down."

Lawford only blinked in surprise. He didn't know what he wanted, or what he was expecting, and Sharpe had not given him the option to decline. He swallowed thickly, looking down at Sharpe, who now had brushed the hair out of his face and was glancing up at Lawford with a look that held as much wickedness as good humour. Sharpe was not doing this to humiliate him, Lawford realized, but to show that he would extend whatever courtesy was common among footsoldiers to his superior . Though perhaps 'courtesy' wasn't the most appropriate term for it. He came to with a jolt, and opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. His teeth clicked together as he clenched his jaw.

Sharpe's smile widened, and he stilled his hand momentarily. "I'll say nowt, sir," he said, thereby sealing the bond.

Lawford exhaled, his shoulders sagging forward. The arousal was still there, unfolding in the pit of his belly like some terrible flower. This was sin, but it couldn't be of the worst kind, he reasoned, because of the comfort it brought.

Sharpe's fingers were nimble and cunning, manipulating him so expertly his breath caught in his throat. It was all too quick. As strange as the situation was, he didn't want to spend so soon, as though he were a nervous boy. He tried to speak, but only managed a squeaking noise. Sharpe, who had been looking up at the Lieutenant the entire time, tightened his hold and stroked one final time, a harsh stroke that rucked the fabric against the skin in just the right way. Lawford felt his blush deepen as he managed to produce another ridiculous noise, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he dug his nails into Sharpe's shoulder.

"God," he croaked out. He felt powerless, drained, and it was suddenly difficult to meet Sharpe's keen blue gaze. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips to keep down any further undignified noises, He could taste the sharp salt of sweat on his lips, and his coat chafed and constricted him. He didn't know what he was expected to do now. Repay the favour? The very thought made his pulse quicken, but he could not tell if it was shame or enthusiasm. It was simply not something he had done, and to... bear hand on his inferior was irregular to say the least.

When he opened his eyes again, blinking against the harsh light, he saw that Sharpe had fallen asleep. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, feeling the warm weight of Sharpe's hand on his thigh, then carefully took it by the wrist and lifted it away. He allowed himself to run his thumb over the callused skin, then gently settled Sharpe's hand on the blanket. As he stood up, his back protested loudly and his breeches dragged at the skin of his legs. Giving a wince, he tugged at his shirttails and coat. He would have to find a way to wash himself off, lest Colonel Gudin set his all too perceptive gaze on him and interrogate him on what had happened. Lawford wasn't sure that even Sharpe could find a way to lie about that matter.

"There's a well out back, Bill," came Sharpe's sleep-roughened voice. "Wash't off before it dries or it'll itch like the devil."

Lawford was halfway out the door before he realized that he had obeyed Sharpe without hesitation. He felt the blush return to his cheeks, but kept walking, determined to keep up the ruse. Damn Sharpe and his confidence.


End file.
